


5+1: Adventures in Cuisine Via Hawke

by MaverikLoki, Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [23]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Drunk!Fenris is Drunk, Gen, Kitchen Accidents, Leandra's A+ Parenting, That's not food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anton Hawke has a habit of bribing Fenris with apple tarts. But, what came before the tarts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Delights of Orlais

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qophia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qophia/gifts).



Anton Hawke had a plan. It was a questionable one, certainly, but one he was relatively sure would succeed. He needed a sword at his back, and one that wasn't attached to a do-good guardswoman or his whiny little brother -- and his whiny older brother knew just the elf. But, he couldn't just depend on Artemis to make this work, as depending on Artemis had a tendency to end in a holding pattern of spotless floors and neatly arranged bottles. No, this time, he'd be counting on himself.

You couldn't go wrong with a little bribery, he'd found, and what better to bring to someone who apparently led a life of persistent deprivation than fine Orlesian chocolate? A touch of the very best was usually enough to turn heads, and if he could keep Fenris's attention long enough, he was fairly sure he could sell the idea of a run up the coast. Sure, he could take Aveline. They were smugglers. But, he had some intentions toward the goods being hauled, and Aveline wouldn't stand for it.

Stopping at the chocolatier, on his way across Hightown, Anton selected a few dark truffles, dusted in cocoa and with sprigs of mint pressed into the tops. The box cost him a few silver, which was steep, but the take on this job would run enough to make it worth the price of the bribe. He patted himself down a few more times, on the way to Fenris's door, ensuring that if anything went wrong, he'd make it out in no more than two pieces.

There was no answer the first time Anton knocked, and he wondered, at first, if he had come to the wrong decrepit house. Or if Fenris had decided to squat somewhere else, possibly somewhere with fewer corpses. He knocked again, and this time the door opened on the cranky elf of the hour. Fenris, it seemed, hadn't bothered with a shirt but _had_ bothered with a sword.

"What." His tone made the word more of an accusation than a question. Fenris squinted at Anton and the box in his hand. "You're one of the Hawkes, aren't you? Anton, was it? Thank your brother for organising the wine bottles in the cellar. They're much easier to find now."

"Wait until he starts organising your underwear," Anton said wryly.

Fenris blinked at the Hawke in his doorway. "I don't have any."

And that was more than Anton needed to know. Or picture. "Right. Then you're safe from that particular threat. Anyway." He held up the box. "I come bearing chocolates!"

"Chocolates..." Fenris tried his best not to look as confused as he was. That was not a word he was familiar with, but damned if he was going to let this Southern barbarian know that. "Why are you here, exactly? If it is to deliver these chocolates, you are already more than halfway to the point, are you not? If it is some other reason, I suggest you get to the point, and swiftly."

"I've come to discuss business! And, as is traditional, I have brought a light snack. One should never assume someone else has eaten enough to engage in negotiations properly. And while these aren't much, they'll definitely calm the nerves and clear the head." Anton removed the lid of the box to reveal two rows of brown spheres, each about the size of a silver piece, with green leaves pressed artfully over the tops. "The finest Orlesian chocolate -- or at least the finest available in Kirkwall. Come, let us indulge, and I will share with you my plans to profit us both."

"You have brought me something to eat." Fenris considered the round, leafy objects. "If we are to do business, you will first prove to me that these are not poisoned or drugged. I have no cause to place faith in mercenaries bearing gifts."

Anton opened his mouth and waited, still holding out the box. Fenris wondered if hand-feeding was part of traditional business negotiations in Ferelden, but he wasn't about to ask. He selected a chocolate from the corner of the box and held it out. With a huff, Anton leaned forward over the box and took the chocolate between his teeth, making a show of chewing, swallowing, and sticking out his tongue for Fenris to see.

"There," Anton said. "Not poisoned. Or would you like me to test them all?"

Fenris answered by reaching for another chocolate in the box, this one closer to the middle. He held it up in front of him, inspecting the decorative leaf, the texture. He pressed in with thumb and forefinger until a crack ran along its middle, and finally he popped it into his mouth.

"They're Orlesian," Anton reminded him proudly, but his smug smile slipped as he watched Fenris's face, which twisted, scrunching in on itself. Fenris paused mid-chew, and from the assessing look Fenris was giving him, Anton could tell he was trying to find a polite way to spit it out. "No good?"

Seriously? Who in Thedas didn't like chocolate?

Fenris finally swallowed, lip curled in displeasure. "That tasted like dirt," he said. "I need to wash the taste out with wine."

He shut the door in Anton's face.


	2. That's Not How Food Works

Anton slung an arm across Artemis's shoulders, grin already firmly plastered on. "Artie, my favourite brother... You know that elf you're--" He caught the start of a glare and didn't finish the sentence. "The one with the big sword. You know what I need more of, up the coast? A big sword. Preferably one that isn't attached to our whiny little brother."

"Andraste's tits, Anton, I can hear you!" Carver complained from the far side of the room. "Take that back before I come over there and knock it down your throat right along with your teeth."

"You stand a better chance of hitting Cormac," Anton scoffed, before returning his attention to his older brother. "Do you know that elf of yours doesn't like chocolate? Who doesn't like chocolate? I even got him those nice Orlesian ones. But, I bet you know what he likes, don't you... I need some more sword for a raid on a bandit camp, this weekend. Bribe him with something nice for me. I'll pay for it."

"Er..." Artemis picked the dirt from under his nails. What _did_ Fenris like? Killing things...throwing wine at walls... "Why don't you just ask him? That's how I got him to go to Sundermount that one time."

"Yes, and that's also how he met Cormac and Anders. Really, Artie? You introduced the mage-cranky elf to those two and expected him to want to go on more outings with us? Besides, there's a difference between you asking and me asking." He squeezed Artemis's shoulders, earning a flat look from his older brother. "Please?"

"Fine," Artie muttered. He didn't say that if he knew how to bribe Fenris, he would have done it already."How hard can it be?"

 

Artemis figured he couldn't go wrong with bread pudding. He'd watched Anton make it enough times that he knew the steps and knew that they were _easy_ steps. It wasn't until he started cooking, his attention divided between the food and his guest, that he realised this had been a mistake.

Cormac passed through the kitchen on his way out the back door. "I'm going to go see Anders. Don't burn down the kitchen while I'm out. Mum would be so pissed at both of us, and she's pissed enough at me for one day."

Fenris's ears twitched as the door closed."I assume your brother is joking about the kitchen. You haven't lit it aflame, before, have you?" he asked, pouring himself another glass of what passed for wine, in Lowtown. He'd put worse things in his mouth, sometimes even intentionally.

All the same, he found it charming that a mage was willing to cook for him. He'd rather assumed mages didn't cook,and just relied on servants, but he'd also never met a poor mage, before the Hawkes. Slums, he'd noticed, were much the same, no matter where one went, and the only difference in this hovel compared to countless others was the high concentration of mages -- and apparently, no one to see to their needs. The idea was intriguing.

"Uh, this kitchen?" Artie answered distractedly as he concentrated on the milk, pouring slowly, slowly,so as to get the exact right amount. "No. Technically."

"Technically?" Fenris asked, eyebrow quirking. He pulled out a stool to sit on, still keeping within range of the door. He wasn't surprised when the stool wobbled under him.

"Nothing was on fire that wasn't supposed to be," Artemis explained. "It was the smoke that was misbehaving." He frowned down at the soggy mixture. "Was that enough milk? Should I add more? I think I'll add more."

Fenris couldn't answer that as he didn't know what Artie was making, but he was starting to get used to the mage muttering to himself from time to time.

Artemis added more milk anyway,chewing his lip and looking less than confident in this decision. Fenris scooted closer to the window in case of another instance of smoke misbehaving.Artie muttered to himself as he went on to the next ingredient, still working painfully slowly.

"Is this some Fereldan delicacy?" Fenris asked, in an attempt to figure out what he was about to put in his mouth. So far, from the ingredients he'd seen, it didn't look like it had anything particularly offensive in it, whatever it was.

"Artie, your mother says to close up the stove, before you smoke out Lowtown." Gamlen leaned in from the other room. "Now, I don't know what kind of thing you're making, but it looks like a pudding, from here, and I hope you can't fuck up a pudding. That's not a talent you want to have. I know Leandra's a little rough on you kids, so I'm just going to take it on faith that you're not going to burn down my house, making a pudding." He paused and glanced at Fenris missing the ears, with the way the elf was leaning against the window frame. "You look like a nice girl. Be careful with this one. He's a little jumpy and weird. But, maybe you're into that. Girls these days..."

Gamlen wandered back out of the kitchen and Fenris stared after him. "I will presume that is your uncle, and that he is drunk."

"If I pretended I didn't know him, would you believe me?" Artemis asked with a weak smile, ears burning red.

"Well, there isn't much of a family resemblance," Fenris offered.

"Except for the drinking," Artemis sighed. "That's a family trait." He turned back to the food, following Gamlen's instructions on the stove before throwing some more things into the mixture. He was highly aware of Fenris watching him, and he wanted to impress him, he really did, but so far this looked nothing like the bread pudding Anton usually made. "Damn."

"Something the matter?" Fenris asked.

"Um. No. Nothing the matter." It would probably look fine once it was cooked. It would certainly be less... soggy. He considered calling for Leandra and making sad faces at her until she fixed it, but that would defeat the purpose. This pudding was supposed to be from _him_.

"Right. We'll just... let it cook a bit, shall we?" Artemis said, his smile more manic than friendly. And now he didn't know what to do with his hands.

Fenris found himself more and more certain of his initial assumption -- that mages couldn't cook -- but this mage had _cleaned_ so thoroughly and profoundly that he'd been willing to give this a try. But, the mage looked a great deal more nervous than Fenris tended to associate with a successful venture of any kind.

He conversed awkwardly with Artemis,for some time, aborted conversations ending in the two of them staring at anything but each other. As he looked back to attempt another round, the pot caught his eye, large milky bubbles heaving the edge of the lid up. "Er, is that... It's bubbling over. Does that mean it's done?"

"It's--? Andraste's ass!"

Fenris knew from experience that not all mages were graceful, but he'd never seen one flail quite like this before. Artemis flitted around the stove, almost burning his hand on the pot before remembering to not touch it with his bare hands. His attempts to salvage the meal were accompanied by a muttered mantra of "shit, shit, fuck, damn".

Fenris saw defeat in the drooping line of Artie's shoulders. He cleared his throat. "Problem?"

Artemis opened and closed his mouth a few times, never quite meeting Fenris's eyes. "One moment." He walked to the doorway Gamlen had disappeared into and whined, "Mum!"

The door of the room Gamlen and Leandra shared banged open, and Leandra stalked out, wrapped in a heavy housecoat that looked nearly as old as she was. "Maker, Artemis, what have I said a hundred times about the stove?" She pushed past him into the kitchen, without so much as a glance at Fenris. "Couldn't you get one of your brothers to cook for you? Where's Cormac? Don't tell me Cormac went out and didn't leave you supper!"

Fenris watched the storm of a woman poke at the contents of the pan, with a long spoon. He had the sense, at least,to remain quiet, lest he attract her eye.

"What is this? Is this a _pudding_? The top's raw and the bottom's burnt! How do you do these things, Artemis? Do you just not think?" Leandra sounded utterly exasperated -- as if this had not only happened before, but happened fairly regularly, at some point."How did you manage to ruin a pudding? You are twenty-six years old, and I think your brother's _dog_ could cook a better meal! Where's your brother? Or your other brother? One of the ones who can at least cook a _pudding_!"

Artemis flinched, his stare cutting down to a stain on the counter, which he tried to pick at with his thumb. He looked more resigned than hurt, shoulders slumping but expression going blank. "Mum, we have company," he said softly. "Can you tell me how stupid I am later, please?"

Leandra stilled in the middle of poking at the poor excuse for a pudding. She stared up at Artemis before looking over her shoulder and finally seeing the elf lurking by the window. Fenris waved at her uncomfortably.

Leandra wheeled back around, throwing her arms across her chest. " _Artemis Hawke_!" she hissed through her teeth. " _Do_ you have a brain? Because sometimes I wonder. I am not dressed for company! You could warned me!"

"Yes, yes, we've established I'm an idiot," Artemis muttered tiredly. "But, is the pudding salvageable?"

"I wouldn't feed it to the dog," Leandra declared poking at it a bit more. "But, if you put a bit more bread into it, and _do not put it over the fire again_ , it might be food enough for you and Cormac, after a few minutes. He should eat your cooking, if he's going to go out and leave you to cook for yourself."

To Fenris, who had mostly been living on jerky and hard rolls, the idea of it didn't seem that terrible, even if it was a little burnt on the bottom. Perhaps not something he'd cook for himself -- well, no. Exactly the sort of thing he'd cook for himself, which was why he ate jerky and hard rolls. At least the mage didn't seem to be any worse at cooking than he was. It was a bit of a relief, though, to discover that mages couldn't cook, after all.

"And if you expect to eat, tonight, it _will_ be this. We can't afford to have you ruining food! What even possessed you to try to cook?" Leandra demanded, looking no less furious but much more confused. "Was bread and milk not enough? You had to cook them?"

Artemis should have known better than to try cooking here. Or to try cooking. His entire face and neck heated with embarrassment as she scolded him. "I..." He cleared his throat. "I wanted to introduce my friend to some Fereldan cuisine."

Leandra's expression turned absolutely thunderous.

"He's from Tevinter, you see," Artie rambled as her lips pursed. "Probably never had bread pudding. Right, Fenris? You've never had bread pudding before, have you?"

Fenris was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to, at this rate. "No," he said, eyes wide as he looked back and forth between the two.

"See?" Artie offered his mum another weak smile, suddenly wishing that Cormac hadn't gone out.

"That's still not pudding," Leandra snarled, taking a cup of milk and a roll for herself. "And we can't afford to be feeding your little friends, Artemis. Is that how you're paying for your elves now? We can't afford for you to be paying for them. We can't afford anything, any more. We have nothing, since your father died! Nothing!"

She stormed out of the room, clearly on the verge of tears, and Fenris watched her go, unwilling to look away from the kitchen doorway, for a few moments afterward, half expecting her to return.

"Perhaps we should go to the Hanged Man," Fenris suggested, as delicately as he could manage. "I have silver enough for beer and stew, at least, and if it isn't enough, there's still wine in my cellar. I certainly need a drink after that." He didn't much care about the pudding, one way or the other. He just wanted to get out, and it seemed rude not to take Artemis with him, after what he'd just seen.

"I... er..." Artie gave the sad almost-pudding another poke. He wondered if that would be worse, leaving the ruined pudding and wasting all that food and effort, but, Maker, stew sounded good. Leaving sounded better. "I need a drink too," he decided. "Or drinks, plural. Multiple drinks."

For once, he left the mess behind for someone else to clean up.


	3. An Elfed-Up Decision

"Cormac, you've got to help me." Anton perched on the edge of the table where his brother was losing a game of cards, carefully placing himself where he couldn't see the hands of either player. He'd feel compelled to play the rest of the hand, himself, if he could see the mistakes his brother was about to make.

"No, I don't." Cormac smirked up at his little brother, but Anton just waited him out. "All right, all right. What?"

"I'm trying not to take Carver up the coast with me. You know he won't listen to anyone but you, and he whines even then." Anton rolled his eyes.

"So, don't take Carver. Take Aveline." Cormac shrugged. "Problem solved."

"Can't. She's busy. I have to get this in the next two days, or we'll miss out."

"She's busy, by which you mean even if she wasn't, she wouldn't approve, and you don't want to hear it." Cormac laughed. He knew what Anton wasn't saying, now -- that there were either smugglers or some fence's runners waiting for a pickup, and his distribution of the goods, in the aftermath, would be unlawful, at best. "So, what? You want me to find you a swordsman you're not going to have to keep an eye on?"

"No, I have one. I just want you to convince him to go along with me."

"Oh! What's this? The shining Silver Tongue of Lothering is tied and can't do its own talking?" Cormac teased, squinting at his hand and then making an extremely risky play.

"No, you ass, I need someone who can do elfy shit," Anton sighed, resisting the urge to take the cards out of his brother's hands.

"Then you have the wrong brother, don't you?"

"No, not like that!" Anton was aiming for horrified, but he failed. "Besides, I already tried Artie. It's his elf."

"You want me to go talk to Artie's elf for you, so you can drag his sword up the coast for a few days?"

"I need you to bribe him for me. I somehow managed to convince him that business negotiations should be accompanied by food. And now, if he doesn't like the food, he refuses to negotiate. I tried Orlesian chocolates, first. Then... I don't know what Artie did, but mum was furious, and Fenris still won't deal."

"I know exactly what he did," Cormac sighed. "I ended up eating it for breakfast. What in the name of holy Andraste possessed you to tell him to _cook_?"

"I didn't tell him to cook! I told him to bribe the elf with food, and I'd pay for it!" Anton protested, loudly.

"Maker's balls. He's actually trying to woo the elf." Cormac groaned. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. You're still paying for it?"

Anton counted his coins. "I'm still paying for it. Just don't bankrupt me."

* * *

With the tip of one clawed finger, Fenris pushed aside the curtain just enough to peer out at whoever was hovering by the front door. Three Hawkes in as many days? He was going to need to have a chat with the lot of them. He was trying to _avoid_ being noticed.

He considered not answering on principle, but that would just encourage Cormac to loiter out there even longer. Fenris tore open the door before Cormac could knock a second time, scowl firmly in place. "I don't know why you're knocking," was his greeting. "No one lives here. This house is abandoned. Remember?"

Then Fenris's eyes dropped to what Cormac was holding. His ear twitched. "What is it this time?" he sighed.

"Bag rolls." Cormac grinned, holding up a knotted piece of cloth with lumps in it. "I figured I'd open the negotiation with something a little more traditionally Dalish, this time. I know, I know, you wouldn't know Dalish food if it walked up and introduced itself, but it's good enough for Merrill, and it's good enough for me."

"Bag... rolls..." Fenris squinted at the length of cloth draped over Cormac's shoulder. "That doesn't sound like food at all."

"And now you sound like my brother." Cormac laughed and drew a knife, cutting the knot on the last lump and tossing the cloth-covered ball of acorn flour, fruit, and meat to Fenris. "I used to eat these all the time, back home. Easy to travel with and really good, if they're not all you've been eating for a week."

Fenris took the ball from Cormac and stared down at it, one eyebrow arcing towards his hairline. "This is..." He poked at the cloth's contents and licked a bit of the flour of his gauntlet. "Really? I've been on the run for how long, and this is how you hope to bribe me? I am familiar with... bag rolls, if not with that particular name. Too familiar." He handed the bag back. It was better than the chocolates, but he didn't think he could stomach eating this _again_. "So should I expect a fourth Hawke with another offering? Carver or Bethany perhaps?" Just as long as it wasn't Gamlen. Or Leandra.

Cormac shrugged and crammed half the roll into his mouth. "I dnt nww--" He held up a finger and finished eating, before he tried again. "I don't know what he's going to try, next, but, really, it might be worth it just to go with him. I can tell what he's up to, and it's going to end in a decent amount of coin. He just needs you along in case of Qunari. A couple of daggers isn't going to cut it, against one of those bull-headed giants."

"And he expects me to--"

"Did I mention how well he pays?" Cormac shrugged again. "I don't care. It's between you and my brother and possibly my other brother, whatever you two have going on -- and if I find out you've even breathed on Artemis wrong, you'll be dealing with me -- but, I can promise this is a profitable venture, no matter what the food looks like." He stepped back from the door. "Think about it," he said, turning around and cramming the rest of the roll into his mouth.


	4. A Broken Bottle Between Friends

Anton walked into Varric's suite and slumped into a chair without so much as a knock, all long, sprawling limbs and melodramatic sighs.

"No luck?" Varric asked without even looking up from the sentence he was writing. He knew Anton had been planning to head out to the coast today, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what had gone wrong.

"I'm beginning to wonder how the elf has lived this long, if he's this picky," Anton replied, resting his head on the back of the chair and addressing the ceiling. "Granted, I understand not touching Artie's cooking -- I would doubt his survival instincts if he had -- but who the fuck doesn't like chocolate?"

Varric half-listened, tapping his lip with the feathered end of his quill. He frowned down at the unfinished sentence, trying to decide how to finish it. "Hey. What's another word for 'frustrating'?" he asked.

"Fenris," Anton muttered.

Varric chuckled and finally set down his quill, twisting in his seat to address his friend. "You know what your mistake has been?" he asked. Anton eyed him and shook his head. "You've been trying to bribe him with _food_. Let me handle this. I have just the thing." He smiled sweetly. "Provided you reimburse me, of course."

Anton swore under his breath. This elf was getting to be expensive.

* * *

Unlike the horde of Hawkes, before him, Varric did not knock. Instead, he let himself in through a broken window at the side of the mansion and came around to the front hall, taking an inventory of the destruction and half-decayed corpses along the way. "Hey, Fenris!" he called out, from the bottom of the stairs. "Come down and have a drink with me! I got lucky and came into a bottle of a very nice imported Fereldan whiskey, and I thought I'd share it with the drunkest elf I know!"

"The only elf you know," Fenris grumbled, staggering out of his room, half-dressed and leaning on a hefty warhammer for balance.

"I know plenty of elves," Varric assured him. "But, none of them have quite the appreciation for the lady liquor that I see in you."

Fenris grunted something that could have been agreement, one hand wiping over his face. "I'm trying to decide if I should feel honoured," he said, but he gestured Varric towards the sitting room, the one that stank the least of corpses.

Varric already considered that a victory, and he started composing an instruction manual in his mind for the hapless Hawkes: 'A Treatise On How to Handle Elves'. Though rumour had it that Artemis had certain... other, related experience that Varric wasn't going to touch.

"Sit down before you fall down," he told Fenris, grabbing a pair of glasses from the sidebar on his way to a chair. He dusted them out with the tail of his tunic. "Have you already started drinking for the night? I feel like I'm late to a party." Balancing both glasses in one hand, Varric poured for both of them.

"Hardly a party, unless you count the corpses." Fenris took a glass and sat, waiting for Varric to drink first.

"Cautious," Varric noted. "That's good. I'm not trying to poison you, of course, but I'd probably say that even if I was." He took a long swallow of the whiskey, and then stared at the glass. "I've been had. It's good, but I've been had. It's not Fereldan at all, it's Nevarran, and if I think about it for a few minutes, I can probably tell you the distillery."

"Is that a dwarven talent?" Fenris asked, sipping a bit of the whiskey and swishing it from one side of his mouth to the other a few times, before swallowing. "A comprehensive knowledge of the origins of alcohols?" He paused and took a few breaths through his mouth. "And this tastes like licking wet rocks, but I like the bite."

"Do you make a habit of licking rocks, wet or otherwise?" Varric teased. He put his free hand up, palm out. "Hey, what a man -- or elf -- does in his free time is his business, but..."

"I could find you a rock to lick, if you like," Fenris asked, narrowing his eyes in mock irritation. "Then you can tell me if I'm wrong."

Varric sucked his lips between his teeth to keep from smirking. "You know, Broody," he said, swirling his glass, "from anyone else, I'd take that as a come-on."

Fenris blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." Varric half-leaned out of his seat to top off Fenris's glass, and the elf took another drink without breaking stride.

A couple of hours passed, and the bottle dwindled, Fenris telling more and more absurd stories as time went on. "... It wasn't that I was afraid of him, or afraid to kill him, but I wanted to at least buy some food, before I had to lose myself in the wilderness, again. Coming up on the mountains. Didn't want to go in without at least something. So, this guy's there, asking around about me, and I'm right next to him, wearing a dress and bonnet I stole off the laundry line, up the road, hoping the bonnet would hide my-- my face..."

Varric was laughing so hard, he could barely breathe. "I'm still not over you in some peasant dress," he choked out.

"It was a better fit for the neighbourhood than a ballgown!" Fenris snickered and poured another drink for himself -- the last one in the bottle. "Last drink. I'll get some wine in a minute."

"So, did he spot you? Don't leave me hanging! This is great!" Varric guffawed.

Fenris sipped the whiskey. "He did not. I bought a cheesecloth and a sack of road pudding mix, and then I flirted a bit, so he would follow me. Killed him in an alley, on my way out of town, and left his heart on his chest, so they'd know it was me."

Varric's shoulders shook with silent laughter as he clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to squirt alcohol out his nose. That was bound to burn. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just stuck on the 'I flirted a bit'. I didn't realise you knew _how_ , or did this dress give you special abilities?"

Fenris huffed, trying to sit up from the sideways sprawl he'd fallen into. His ears twitched, the left one higher than the right, and that was something Varric was noticing more and more when Fenris drank. "I can flirt when I wish!" he said, defensively enough for Varric to know he was full of shit.

Varric barked out a laugh that filled the room. "Broody," he said between cackles. "The other day, when Artie was drunk off his ass --"

"--you'll have to be more specific."

"--the _most recent time_ Artie was drunk off his ass, he said something to you about..." Varric cleared his throat and arched his eyebrows. "...not tasting any 'elven cuisine' in a long time, and you told him to ask his brother."

"His brother brought me some Dalish delicacy that's less a delicacy and more a staple, the further north you get." Fenris still didn't get it. "If he was asking me to cook for him, he's still wrong. I am not an elf, as most people think of elves. I have no 'elven tastes'."

"You also have no clue," Varric pointed out, eyes wide with the realisation that even after having laid out the point fairly plainly, Fenris didn't catch it. He started to wonder if it was a language problem. "When's the last time you flirted with someone?"

"Right before I killed that man." Fenris shrugged. "I have no need to flirt. That just seemed the most convenient way to dispose of a slave hunter."

"And what, pray tell, qualified as flirting?" Varric asked, swallowing the last of the whiskey in his glass.

"I watched him over my shoulder and swished my hips like a prostitute, as I walked away." Fenris glared across the top of his glass. "Happy? It's not like I could talk. He'd likely have noticed I was me!"

Varric almost felt bad for the clueless elf, but Fenris was giving him some great material. Artemis certainly had his work cut out for him, though. "Come on, stop pouting and finish your drink. We've only just started!"

"M'not pouting," Fenris mumbled, pouting, as he tossed back the last of the whiskey.

* * *

When no one answered on the second knock, Anton decided to let himself in, one hand on a dagger as he slipped in through the window, the same window Varric had entered through, judging by the bootprints in the dust.

"Hello?" he called out, knowing better than to sneak up on a tightly-wound elf with sword. "The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and it's time for murderous elves to wake up and greet the day!"

Anton peered into the sitting room and ducked back just in time to avoid a pillow in the face. "I don't think that's why they're called 'throw pillows'!" he called into the room.

A distinctly unelfy groan answered him. "You know what else has the word 'throw' in it?" Varric asked, voice more gravelly than usual. "'Throw up'. This is also relevant."

"Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no no no." Anton stalked into the room, disbelieving and disappointed. "I send my archer to go get me a swordsman for a run, today, and now _both of you_ are too drunk to stand up? Screw you, Varric. I'm not paying you back for the bottle, if this is what it gets me. I'm taking the twins."

Fenris groaned and rolled out of his chair, falling to the floor, before he pulled himself up, wearing clothes that didn't seem to be his. From where Anton was standing, it looked like he was wearing Varric's jacket, but backward. "You _are_ trying to poison me," Fenris groaned, dully, clutching the side of the chair for balance, one of his ears sticking almost straight out to the side. "Next time I'm going back to wine."

"Useless!" Anton shouted, storming toward the door. "Absolutely useless! What am I even paying you for!?"

"You're not, remember?" Varric called after him.


	5. No Longer a Pudding

Fenris still hadn't quite recovered from his hangover when a fourth Hawke came storming up the front steps. Carver didn't so much knock as pounded on the door, and the sound rattled around in Fenris's skull. In answer, Fenris did what he should have done a few days ago when Anton had knocked: he locked and bolted the door.

"Hey!" Carver called out, voice muffled by solid wood but still, regrettably, audible. "Did you just _lock_ the door?"

"It's my new policy for Hawkes," Fenris called back. "Especially for Hawkes carrying food, which I know you are." Venhedis, some days he missed Tevinter cooking... "So turn around, _stop knocking_ at a house that is supposed to be abandoned, and share whatever foodstuffs or alcohol you've brought with your family."

"Oh, come on, Fenris! I don't know what's going on with you and Anton or with you and Artemis -- and please just don't tell me about you and Artie -- but will you just go up the coast with Anton? If you don't go, then I have to go, because mum's going to have kittens if I don't go, and he gets _stabbed_ or something." Carver whined, leaning on the door. "It's just a run up the coast! You get to stab some smugglers!"

"If it's just a run up the coast, why are you so intent on not going?" Fenris asked, barely keeping his patience. He wondered why he hadn't walked away, but realised it was because Carver would probably continue to get louder. If he stayed close, he could maintain the illusion that there wasn't a Hawke shouting pleas at his door.

"Because it's my brother, and he just makes me want to kick him in the teeth. If I talk Aveline into it, she'll probably arrest him! And then mum's going to have kittens. You're my only hope, Fenris! Come on!" Carver was terrible at ingratiating, but he could manage annoyingly whiny, in a pinch, if he thought it would serve him.

Fenris let his head thunk against the door. Carver was likely to keep whining at the door, and the last thing he needed was any unwanted attention from the neighbours. If he could call them that. Cursing under his breath, Fenris unbolted and unlocked the door, certain he would regret this.

"So what is it this time?" Fenris griped as he peered around the door at Carver. "Nevarran, perhaps? Or some 'delicacy' from the Anderfels? I'm not sure how much more my palate can handle."

"No, it's... it's Fereldan," Carver answered, shuffling his feet and peering down at the pot in his hand. Fenris half expected Carver to lift up the lid to check, simply because that was the sort of thing his brother would do. "Not... a delicacy, exactly, but I'm no cook."

Rolling his eyes, Fenris stepped back to hold the door open. "Well, come in, then. Stop loitering outside my door." He hoped this wouldn't take long.

Carver stepped in and glanced around. He'd forgotten what a disaster this place was, or maybe he'd hoped it had improved since Fenris was living in it. He wasn't quite sure how it had survived Artemis, though. Maybe his brother didn't have a thing going with the elf, if this place still looked like this. Or, maybe, and more likely, they just didn't have a thing going _here_. Still, that cut down the likelihood of spoons, and he suddenly wished he'd thought to bring one.

"It's, um, a pudding." Carver took the lid off and held out the pot, and Fenris caught an odd scent from it.

"Yes. I recognise it. Your brother tried to make one for me." Fenris squinted at the gooey mass. "You will, of course, eat from it first. Enough Hawkes have attempted to put questionable content in my mouth."

"I'm sure it's fine! Artie's not _that bad_ of a cook!" Carver protested. "Do you have a spoon?"

"No." Fenris looked entirely unamused.

Carver drew his dagger, slowly, hilt out, and used it to cut a bit of the pudding and lift it to his mouth. "See? It's not poisoned or anything!"

Fenris was still hesitant to touch the... what Carver insisted was a 'pudding', but not because he thought it was poisoned. He poked at the gooey mess with one finger, lip curling at the stink.

Carver rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, it's not going to--" He cut himself off, a weird gurgling sound catching in his throat. Fenris had never seen someone's face turn that shade of green so fast. He took a step back.

"Are you --" Carver vomited into the pan. "--okay?"

"Murrgh," Carver answered, face still buried in the pan, just over the pudding that didn't look much different regurgitated.

Fenris wondered how this had become his life. "Well, I'm definitely not eating it, now."

Largely unsympathetic to this absurd series of events, Fenris forcefully assisted Carver back to the door, without sloshing any of the pudding or slightly-used pudding on the floor. Not that he was sure it would much matter, all things considered, but he'd prefer not to step in it. "Tell your brother I remain unconvinced," he said, shutting the door against another stream of vomit.


	6. Apples, at Last

Bethany made her way across the Lowtown market, buying the things best bought in the morning -- vegetables, milk, and other things that were best bought and used in a day. Her brothers would buy other things, come evening -- bread and other day or even week-old goods that would no longer be good by the next day. Still, she kept an eye on the goods, judging whether there would be anything left, later.

As she came to the fruit stand, she thought she recognised the back of the elf haggling with the shopkeeper. "Fenris! How lovely running into you, here! I'd have thought you shopped in Hightown!"

Fenris didn't reach for the sword at his back, but at the sound of his name, his muscles tensed as though readying to. "Good morning, Bethany," he said as he handed over his coins to the shopkeeper, who counted them meticulously in her palm. "Lowtown is less convenient but also less expensive. I do not mind the extra walking."

When Fenris noticed the bundles of food Bethany balanced on her hip, he held the bag of apples he'd just bought in front of him, almost as a shield. The last thing he needed was more Hawkes and food.

"You're not here to bribe me too, are you?" he asked, eyes wide and ears twitching. "Because I don't think I can handle any more Hawke cuisine." Carver had left behind a few spots of vomit that Fenris hadn't bothered to clean. He doubted the corpse in the foyer would care, and maybe it would deter other unwanted guests.

"Don't worry," Bethany said. "These aren't for you, and Artie isn't getting near anything that needs to be cooked."

"Cooking," Fenris muttered. "I honestly don't see why you bother. Good food is just as good raw, and I've heard the Orlesians use sauces to hide that it's gone over."

"I heard that was the Antivans," Bethany replied, with a smile. "Orlesian sauces are much too dependent on milk."

"Why can we not just live on preserved meat and apples?" Fenris asked, aborting a gesture of frustration as the sack of apples slid down in his grip. "Apples are what we are meant to eat. Clearly. Even if I can't get the good apples from Tantervale anywhere in this fish-foul city of stench and hopelessness."

"I've never been to Tantervale!" Bethany's smile grew brighter. "Is it a nice place, or have they just got good apples?"

"I'm afraid I didn't stay long in Tantervale, itself. A very human city. Very human. I don't believe the dwarves had a hand in it at all, which I suppose is less unusual in the Marches. The market was lovely, though, all bright-coloured banners." Fenris shook his head. "All the same, not a place I could stay, for long."

Bethany nodded, adjusting her grip on her goods as she started walking with him to the next stall. "More of a place to visit, then? I'll add it to my list, though I'm afraid that list is getting quite long. Perhaps en route to Nevarra..." She stopped herself before she could start talking about her research. The Lowtown market was too loud for any real in depth intellectual conversation, no matter how politely she was certain Fenris would nod along. "I'll have to try one of their apples and see how they compare to their Fereldan cousins."

They made more polite conversation as they shopped, and Fenris gradually relaxed the more time that passed that this Hawke didn't offer him any of her food. He bid her goodbye why she was still poking around the vegetable stalls, and she waved as he headed over the bridge into Hightown,

Bethany checked the coin left in her purse. One more stop, she decided. She was in the mood for some tarts...  


* * *

Anton was slumped against the wall of the house, sitting on the wall around the stoop, when Bethany got home. "What am I going to do with this?" he complained, looking up from the dagger he was using to clean his nails. "I missed an amazing opportunity, because Carver was too busy losing his lunch to come with me. I didn't even want to take him, but I needed a sword."

"Is this why Fenris asked if I was trying to bribe him?" Bethany asked, setting down her shopping basket.

"Maybe." Anton spit into the street below. "I attempted to open negotiations with food. And then I attempted to open negotiations with Varric. And then Carver decided to open negotiations, because he's a whiny little shit who didn't want to go along anyway, and he ended up throwing up all over Fenris or something."

"Apples, Anton. He likes apples." Bethany shook her head and laughed. "Specifically, apples from Tantervale, but you might be able to convince him with spiced apples or a decent apple wine."

Anton sat up, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he peered up at his sister. "Apples? Seriously? How did find this out?"

"Magic!" Bethany answered, wiggling her fingers in front of his eyes. "Now hurry up. Didn't you say this needed to be done by today?"  


* * *

Anton didn't knock this time. He suspected Fenris wouldn't answer if he did, and honestly, he wouldn't blame him, not after the parade of Hawke-and-food-related disaster that had marched through here this past week. Anton still thought the sword at his throat was a bit much, however.

"Hello, Fenris," Anton said, smiling down the blade at the scowling elf. He held up the box with his most recent offerings. "I come with--"

"No. We need to talk."

"Indeed we do! About this fantastic opportunity I believe I started to explain to you--"

"I am not putting anything else in my mouth given to me by a Hawke," Fenris said, his stare and grip steady.

"More for me, I suppose," Anton conceded, opening the box to reveal four small apple tarts. "I'd still like it very much if you'd bring your sword to bear for me. There's more profit in it that's inedible. Gold, jewels, maybe some nice furniture..."

"Do I honestly look like I have a use for fine furniture?" Fenris asked, gesturing to the corpse-laden floor, with his free hand.

Anton took the distraction to disarm the elf. "I prefer not to conduct business at swordpoint."

Fenris's hands lit as he grabbed at Anton, who darted back, plucking a tart from the box. "And I prefer my home to be Hawke-free. We don't always get what we want, do we?"

"I don't suppose we do. But, this arrangement could solve both of our problems. I wouldn't be standing in your house, and you'd be pointing a sword at something much more profitable than some young rake from Lowtown." Anton sank his teeth into the tart, with a sound that entirely exaggerated the deliciousness of it. "My brother had no hand in these. They're from the bakery between the market and the Rose District."

"That is obscene," Fenris protested, one ear twitching in annoyance. "I have heard enough men make such sounds in my life, but never for a pastry."

"Then you clearly haven't had one of these pastries," Anton said. He took another bite, his whole body sagging into the motion.

Fenris's scowl didn't soften, but his nostrils flared, head tilting. "What is that?" he asked, knowing he shouldn't encourage the fool, but that had smelled like--

"Apple," Anton said through a third bite before shoving the rest of the tart into his mouth. "Apple tart. And they're for you, you know, so you can try one. In fact, if you try one and don't like it, I'll officially consider your palate a lost cause."

"And you will give up these negotiations? You and your siblings? And... your acquaintances?"

Anton put his free hand over his heart. "I swear on Uncle Gamlen's grave," he said.

"Your Uncle Gamlen is alive."

"Yes, but for how long? You've met the man."

Fenris shook his head, considering the open box in front of him. He could survive one tart if it meant Anton would leave. Daintily plucking one from the box, he studied it, feeling the grease of the crumbly crust spreading into the whorls of his fingertips. That was, without question, diced apple. It was covered in some sort of sauce -- a spiced, sweet sauce, if his sense of smell was accurate, but it was definitely apple. "Cooking," he scoffed, taking a bite.

Anton stood motionless, as the elf chewed, waiting for some signal of whether to keep talking or start running.

"This is acceptable." Fenris's ear twitched, as he took another bite, and the tart crumbled into his palm. He would not speak of the fact that it was more than acceptable, that it was, perhaps, one of the best things he'd put in his mouth since he'd left Tantervale. And before Tantervale, there was nothing he'd eaten worth speaking of. "Now, what is it you are attempting to cajole me into with these ... 'tarts'?" He eyed Anton as he licked the rest of the tart off his palm.

"Adventure! Daring deeds! And a whole lot of stuff we can nick and sell. The storm, last night, delayed the pickup. I can still see the ship waiting from the cliffs. If we get to these guys before the ship comes in, they're sitting on a few sovereigns worth of goods, at least. I keep waiting to intercept something worth more, but you can't get greedy around the Coterie."

Fenris licked every last bit of crumbs and sauce from his palm before reaching for another tart, regarding Anton contemplatively. "Coterie, hmm? And Carver was more willing to brave Artemis's cooking than this expedition up the coast?"

"I don't know if 'brave' is quite the word," Anton replied archly, "which is why you were my first choice in the giant-sword-wielding department."

Still munching on his second tart, Fenris leaned his sword against the wall, still within easy reach, and took the box from Anton. He held it under his chin to catch the crumbs. He waited until he was done chewing to speak. "When would you be departing?"

"Whenever Your Efliness wishes to," Anton said, putting on his most charming grin, "provided Your Elfiness wishes to within the next few hours."

"Let us do this quickly, and have it done. I suspect there is wine I have yet to uncover, elsewhere in this ruin, and I had intended to spend my evening searching for it." Fenris considered the last tart. These were really quite good, and he would almost regret eating the last one, but better he should eat it than that it should go over. "Where did you say you got these?" he asked, thinking that if Anton was right about the profits to be made, today, he might invest in a larger box of them, to go with his wine.

"The bakery by the Rose District," Anton told him, trying to hold back a smug smile. "You'll know it by the smell."

"I would be pleased to stand by anything that did not reek of fish in this revolting city," Fenris grumbled, cramming the last of the third tart into his mouth, as he picked up his sword and gestured toward the door.


End file.
